


Oh, What a Night! (how long will it take to see a light?)

by AStudyInAlgedonics



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/No Comfort, M/M, OWWWW, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes has inner demons, Sign of Three spoilers, Who leaves a wedding early?, heartbreak of sherlock holmes, not a fix-it fic, the wedding was a bad day for Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/pseuds/AStudyInAlgedonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gift for idahobbit for the Valentine's Johnlock gift exchange. Prompt was “Sherlock unsure of his place within the Watson family”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, What a Night! (how long will it take to see a light?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idahobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=idahobbit).



> Oh lord. I'm so sorry. I had no idea how to write any sort of comforting, smut, or romance for this. Hurt/comfort is not my area. ANGST is not my area, which was the kind of hurt this would be. And after HLV I just can't get behind Johnlockary, so that wasn't an option.  
> Gift for idahobbit for the Valentine's Johnlock gift exchange. Prompt was “Sherlock unsure of his place within the Watson family”.

Alone.

 

Adrift.

 

Untethered.

Sherlock didn’t feel properly dead until the latter part of his two years away when things stopped being fun and started being painful; but he does now, once again a ghost whose smoke-tinged breath comes cold even in the warm May air as he walks away from the warm light inside the church. Even nestled back into his coat like a hermit crab into its shell, his skin feels chilly where it presses against the lining. His scar-twisted back always aches, but tonight worse. Perhaps it’s because he’s been trying to push it away all day the way he’s been hiding it for months; no one needed to know what happened while he was believed deceased.

Much better to be deemed merely the triumphant, clever hero of a subtle war, with nothing so crass as torture hanging over him. Less vulnerable - and thus, more desirable as a companion for John, who had enough baggage of his own without finding that Sherlock carried any himself. Let John believe that Sherlock is healthier now, that his ‘improved’ sleeping schedule is the result of having learnt the value of it instead of simply wanting to decrease the amount of time he spends aware. The nightmares are bad, but better than the guilt; they are naught but his own memories. The creations of his own subconscious running amok in his mind palace are far worse - the guilt, the ‘John’ he made to talk to out of all the minutiae he archived in the weeks leading up to the roof.

“Do you always carry on talking when I’m away?” he’d asked, once. Stupid. How could John not understand what he’d lent to Sherlock’s clarity of thought? It’s not merely the sounding board he provides; the skull suffices for that.

Balance, stability. John keeps - kept him from falling upwards into his own head, kept him awake, kept him right. The mundane bustle as he went about trivial chores and interrupted with trifling concerns kept Sherlock from floating away. Like light: on his own, he diffuses, his intellect spreads out, it illumines but it does not pierce. John helped make him a laser when his old lens had been taken away.

Now what’s he meant to do? There’s no hope of clinging to John’s oft-repeated promise that nothing will change. Mrs Hudson is, horrifyingly, right when she says that marriage changes things. Even with the best of intentions, the problem of resource allocation means that John will - he forces himself with bleak determination to think the words properly. He will go away.

_Of course I’ll go away. I was always going to leave, Sherlock; you weren’t going to be permanent. Why would I want to keep a lying machine in my life?_

Stop it. Shut up. You aren’t the real John.

_Or I’m a better liar than you gave me credit for, when you let me mourn you because I might give it away. Deep down, you know, though. You know I’m being honest now, that everything else I’ve said was a lie because Mary thinks I’m better with you. She’s wrong, though. You’re a burden now._

_Prick._

_Smartarse._

The words spiral through his mind as the John-construct in his head taunts him, as clearly as if he were standing just behind Sherlock’s shoulder.

_Git._

_Bloody arsehole._

“SHUT UP!”

In hindsight, it might have been better to wait until he was well away from the church to shout at his inner demons.

“Sherlock?” The familiar, unwelcome voice is laden with equally familiar - and equally unwelcome - concern. “What’s going on? Why are you leaving?”

He pretends not to hear and keeps on walking. John can’t follow him for long, lest he risk being missed at his own wedding. He already is - shouldn’t he be dancing with Mary right now anyway?

“Oh, for God’s sake.” A hand grabs at his shoulder and Sherlock’s vision rolls; he reacts, viscerally, instinctively, throwing himself around and lashing out in a blind terror. It’s only when he has been restrained on the ground that he realises this isn’t Serbia - this isn’t Brazil - this is England, and John Watson is not a potential captor. He blinks dizzily up at the doctor above him and extends his hands palms upwards, panting for breath. The sooner he’s allowed to take his weight off his back the happier he’ll be.

John does let him up after a moment, his expression bleakly unsurprised.

“Knew you were being odd about letting the tailors touch you during fittings,” he says. “And modest, too. Used to be you’d change right in front of me, God, and everyone because it was all transport.” John swallows, brows knitting together. “Sherlock, what happened?”

Sherlock bites his lip; the urge to tell John everything and beg him to make it stop, make things better, to cure him, is writhing against his ribcage. Except he no longer has the right to ask John for that; that was the point of today, wasn’t it? A new chapter. With the baby, a new story. John now has enough people relying on him, people with a claim, that there’s no space for Sherlock to do the same.

“Nothing. It’s fine, John.”

He turns, walking faster now so that John will not catch him up again, ignoring repeated calls of his name. Once he’s crossed the street John does surrender, going back to the party where he’s expected to be there, visible, jovial. It’s easy. He’s taller, with longer strides; wasn’t he always leaving John behind before? Sherlock left him behind once too often, and this time John went his own way.

 _Oh, come off it_ , the Mycroft in his head says wearily: the judge, the arbiter, the standard to weigh everything by. Why could he never step away from his brother? _Stop being stupid, Sherlock. Did you really think you were going to have a family? You and I are not family people._

It would have been different, Sherlock thinks rebelliously. John is different; Mary is different. They both had come on a case or two since planning had begun, and it hadn’t been awful. Could have worked.

Mycroft laughs sardonically. _I told you caring is not an advantage how many times? And now it seems your heart has been broken. You have been so very stupid about this._

Yes, he has. He can’t deny that.


End file.
